Tale of a Second Son
by doncaster
Summary: Alaric Varshod, second in line to be head of the powerful House Varshod, is a young man doing what he can to fulfil the expectations of his family. Now he is being sent into the wastes beyond the hive to do what his brother did before him. But is he ready? Is this man drawn from the same stock of his brother? Is he destined to live in his brother's shadow? Can he survive?
1. The Fire Burns Low

The smell of sweet incense, riding on a wisp of a gentle smoke filled Alaric's nostrils. A single strike of a well-tuned bell rang out, signalling the end of the service, followed by the parting words of the priest as the elderly and broken voice called out.  
"Worship the Immortal Emperor." Prompting the reply.  
"For without him we are nothing." Which rose from the throats of the congregation in well practiced and solemn unison. And with that, all remained upon their knees before the alter, heads bowed in reverence, until at last the heavy thud of the grand doors signalled the priest had departed.

In respectful silence the congregation began to file out one by one. Most men here wore the uniforms of House Varshod, marked out by deep blue jackets that almost looked like an inky black in certain lights, with deep ichor red, like clotted blood, collars, cuffs and trousers. The cut and nature of their clothes varied from person to person, and role to role. But the uniformity was unmistakable.

Casting his eyes upon the great winged Aquila that hung above the altar on mighty chains, Alaric offered one last silent thought of thanks before leaving the chapel himself. Immediately he found himself in a large narthex, in which most of the congregation remained, talking amicably with one another, the elaborate gothic architecture almost as grand as within the chapel itself, the priest by the door talking to his flock as they left.

"Alaric!" Called out a voice from the crowd, belonging to a tall, broad shouldered and barrel-chested man who even now was half shuffling, half forcing his way through the crowd. He didn't actually need to barge into anyone, people just seemed to get out of his way. As he drew closer, his full height was made clear. Alaric was not a short man, standing at a distinguished 6'2, but this fellow loomed over him. Sometimes Alaric wondered if a little Astarte had found its way into this man's DNA somehow. As if to reaffirm this idea a firm but friendly hand fell down on Alaric's shoulder with such force as to almost make the man flinch. The lines in the face of this amicable giant gave a clue as to his age, whilst the medal ribbons on his chest spoke as to his experience. "There you are! I was worried I would miss you."

Alaric for his part simply smiled and delicately removed the hand from his shoulder, all too aware that a few on lookers were casting sideways glances at one another and whispering behind their hands. Alaric had a far leaner built, and whilst it was plain to see his features were far younger and fresher than his friends, it was still a face pre-disposed towards gauntness, with slightly sunken cheeks and eyes. Some clue as to the crowd's reaction was to be found in their clothes. For whilst Alaric may have had far fewer medal ribbon on his chest, his clothing was made of a finer cloth, with a hint of gold trim on his shoulder, collars and cuffs, even a matching fourragere. It was far less ostentatious than many in his position would have sported. But it's meaning was clear. Seniority.

But everyone in this room knew something well beyond what was simply implied by the uniform. They knew this man's name. It wasn't just Alaric. It was Alaric Varshod, second son to Valamer Varshod, current head of house and ruler here. Well Alaric Varshod was his short name, his full name would take far too long to say. But Alaric was taking all of this in surprisingly good spirits. Looking up at the brazen man he said with a slight role in his eyes and the ghost of a smile on his face.  
"Jorriah, there was never any chance of that. I would have sought you out before this day was done."  
"Oh really now? The eagerness and arrogance of youth wouldn't have had you tearing out there without taking pause to speak to an old timer like me?" Curiously the towering, robust man seemed to sigh and shake his head. "When did you forget to be young?"

With that, the pair made their way for the exit, walking easily side by side, pausing only briefly to thank the minister before emerging into what could charitably be described as, the outside.

At first an onlooker could have been forgiven for believing that they were indeed in the open air. The pair emerged into a beautiful, ornate garden. Deep beds of vibrant flowers, edged in immaculately trimmed shin high hedges, stretched out before them. A gentle trickle could be heard from the ornate fountains, whilst the calls of rare birds rang out from the branches of perfectly grown trees which were half plant, half sculpture. Even the blend of scents in the air seemed painstakingly tailored to gently complement one another. Around them, and beyond the garden, the spires of great buildings rose, each an awe inspiring sight in their own right. But combined they made a monumental conglomeration of powerful, gothic beauty. Looming above the very pinnacles of these great towers was a swirling red sky, possessed of a strange and terrible grace as it twisted and tore above. It took a keen eye to spot the transparent dome above them, sheltering this little patch of perfection from the maelstrom outside.

The pair seemed to ignore this as they walked along the path from the church with an idle and relaxed pace, savouring the atmosphere, a slight look of child like brightness in old Jorriah's eye conveying a sense of mild wonder at it all, whilst Alaric looked much more used to the display, as if it was hardly worth mentioning.  
"Most teachers would despair of such a brash and headstrong student." Retorted Alaric idly. But Jorriah's response was swift and hard.  
"Most teachers aren't me lad! You listened well to those auto quill wielding bureaucrats and scholars. Learned to think like them. But that's not how to fight. Not at first. You study war like it's a damn exercise in theory. But you need a throne blasted fire in you to fight a war, not a candle to read by."

Alaric pressed his lips into a slight sneer at these words, turning his ice blue eyes to look down his thin, hard and hooked nose at his elder. When he spoke he did so with a cold restraint that only accentuated his displeasure by its subtlety.  
"You speak based on conjecture, I have paid close attention to every lesson you have taught me. Pursued them with diligence. Furthermore, whilst I am not arrogant enough to confuse it with a true war, I would remind you that I have led house retainers to deal with problematic citizens in the lower levels on more than one occasion." But this seemed only to fuel Jorriah's displeasure.  
"I know you can skewer a few chem crazed cut throats. But being able to best a few untrained and underequipped men fuelled by desperation with the fine gear your father has to offer, and a squad of men at your back, is not fighting. You are a good duellist but that's not war. But…" The man seemed to deflate a little, dropping his great shoulders, taking on an almost defeated look. "But that wasn't the worst of it. You returned from those excursions like an administratum clerk might return from a productive day at the copy table. A life or death struggle is supposed to light something in a man. Excitement, fear, joy, grief, any one of a thousand emotions bent to its full height. It is the afterglow of the burning furnace that gives men true steel of muscle and mind in battle… I don't see it in you, when you return."

These words left both men in a strange and heavy silence. Each looking at the floor, the birds, the trees, anywhere but each other. It was not until, after a tortuously long time, Alaric turned his raven haired and tapered head, giving him an almost hawkish appearance, to the greying giant, that Jorriah spoke again, cutting off the young man before he could even utter a syllable.  
"Come with me." He said, in a far more moderate, perhaps conciliatory voice. Half encouraged, half pushed by Jorriah's strong hand Alaric found himself guided to an observation platform. As the two walked Jorriah continued.  
"Look. I did my service in the guard for a long time before I came here. The honours I won in the 73rd Harkoni regiment speak for themselves. I know what I am talking about. Your father bought me out of the regiment just as I was getting too old for it, to teach you how to fight a war."

Finally they arrived at their destination and Jorriah gestured out at the blasted wasteland below, huge swathes of it barely visible through the rolling clouds of acidic vapours. What could be seen was a scorched, wind smashed wreck of twisted rocks, searing plains, rivers of boiling pollutant and hellish, twisted flora. The vast mountain ranges which ran across this world stretched out beneath them. The spire like hive built by mortal men dwarfing anything mere nature could concoct.  
"That is what you are walking into. But it's what lives there that worries me. Orks."  
"I know." Came Alaric's matter of fact reply. "This hive has been sending out men periodically to cull their numbers for as long my family can remember. To stop them from building up and getting as organised as those brutes ever can. My brother did it before father gave him the Fortune's Blade and sent him to the stars. Now it is my turn."  
"You aren't your brother." Retorted Jorriah, crushingly. "Those are orks. Even the primitive, feral ones are in possession of a wild intelligence, and if a leader has risen from their ranks… few foes are so brutal, and so cunning."  
"You once said only the Eldar match a war boss in trickery and deception." Said Alaric contemplatively. Only to prompt Jorriah to snort derisively.  
"And you are likely never going to meet one of those knife eared xenos. Pray to the Emperor you don't. Even to me they were just whispers around a campfire. But orks…" Mid-sentence the man brought up his left arm. "They took my arm." He clenched a gloved fist with the muffled whir of servos as if to prove a point. "And a lot more besides."

But Alaric's frustration was growing, turning sharply to his mentor he looked up at him with accusation in his eyes, lending their cold blue hue a keen sharpness.  
"What is the point of this reprimand? Do you seek to stop me from going? Father has bidden me into the wastes and so I shall go! Nothing you can say can change that! Your cautions are significantly less weighty than his command!" But Jorriah did not rise to the challenge, this time. He was all too aware of the great leniency Alaric was already showing him. He was just a hireling, a common man amongst the nobility. Valued for his skill, but not truly one of them. He still felt out of place in such splendour. Indeed, Alaric likely treated him with more respect than anyone else at the top of this spire. So instead he just sighed once more and shook his head.  
"I can't stop your father. You could but I know you won't. You and your siblings always obeyed him just a little too readily. He would listen but, you won't ask. But, if I can't stop you from doing this damned stupid thing, I hope you will look for whatever battle fire you have inside you and bend it to its full height rather than keep it muted and weak. And do it fast, those monsters will kill you quickly if you don't. You are a good man Alaric, I don't want you to die."

Alaric could not muster words of reprimand in response to that sentiment, especially when it was said with such a palpable forlornness. Nor, in all honesty, could he offer words of reassurance that he would find this spark. He had no wish to lie to this man, and he was looking for the elusive fire but, in all truth, he could find none. True there was gravity and earnestness to what was to come. But no such inborn spark that he could see. Was this what separated he and his brother? Was it this simple? Alaric had always been the smarter of the pair. But Regias had always enjoyed more success, more notice. Until now Alaric had always thought the reason was that Regias was the elder brother, the heir apparent. But it didn't account for that odd difference in their demeanours. Was this the real reason? Such thoughts pressed heavily on Alaric's mind. But as his thoughts matched the swirling turmoil of the atmosphere above he was forced to focus on more immediate concerns.

When he spoke he did so quietly, perhaps a little cowed. He still locked his eyes with Jorriah, but as tall as Jorriah always was, Alaric felt just a little shorter now.  
"I must make the final preparations to go. I am to depart with my detachment soon. I have re-read over the texts we studied. I have sought the Emperor's divine protection. I must now only gather my arms. Good day Jorriah. I will be back soon." And with that Alaric turned to leave, Jorriah just standing silently behind him, watching with worried eyes.

In his chambers Alaric donned his battlegear. His jacket and trousers seemed very similar in appearance to the crisp uniform he had worn in the chapel, but a close observer might notice a slight coarseness that was not present before, a side effect of the myriad chemical treatments needed to proof such things against the harshness of the weather outside, were a man to run his fingers along them it would feel more like canvas than cotton. Atop this he buttoned up his heavy, double breasted great coat. Again in a blue as deep as a moonless midnight with dark, ichorus red facings, decorated with the same simple golden trim to denote his station. With Jorriah's words still plaguing his thoughts Alaric took his armoured breastplate, backplate, and overlapping segmented shoulder plates, and began slowly securing each one into place. All the polishing in the world could not conceal the dull and heavy metal's uncompromising adherence to function rather than form. He had been told it was made of sterner stuff than the seemingly identical plate his comrades sported, fortunately he had never had to test this assertion. Some may have taken his slow manner as he donned these plates as solemn, but it was hesitation that slowed his hand, his aging mentor had perturbed him.

With an idle hand so used to the motion he could do it without thought, Alaric secured a crisp white sash over his shoulder and across his chest, tying off the hanging tassel with a firm tug. Then, turning to the wall he looked upon his weapons of choice, hanging there in pride of place above the gently flickering flames of his hearth. First, he took gently into his hand his long barrelled ripper pistol. It's hard, functional, minimalist and sharply angled design concealed the skill that had gone into its construction. Each component carefully calibrated for brutal efficiency, well beyond the mass-produced products of the manufactorums. A shot from a ripper pistol had surprising penetration and rending ability, but worse still was the deadly and diabolical cocktail of chemicals that would seep into almost any wound the weapon made. It was a weapon designed for killing, but not killing clean. Securing the weapon and it's magazines he tucked it into the holster hanging from his right side.

Then came a weapon which sharply offset the brutalist functionality of the pistol's design. With a gentleness which spoke of how Alaric valued the blade he slowly took into his hands his ancient power sword. It shared many traits with the more modern mordian pattern blades, lighter, thinner and more elegant that the heavy brutes of power swords found in the hands of many warriors. It's double edged design was designed around speed, grace and poise, rather than the cudgel like swings many favoured. But there was something about the elegant curvature of the handle, the narrowness of the blade, it's pleasing curve, the near imperceptible swirling engravings like a gentle sea, the way it moved like gossamer through the air. Something about it put many an observer in mind of a maker more elegant than any mere human. But of course, no foul xeno had forged this prized artefact. Instead, it simply dated back to a time when mankind was truly a master of its craft. It had been in the family longer than anyone could remember, and the family had a long memory. In light of his fencing skill Alaric's father had bequeathed it unto him, and it had served the young man well before now. The unknown metal almost sang as it slid into its scabbard to Alaric's left.

This left his helmet, a solid and understated design, a protective respirator slotted in as standard to guard against the harsh realities of life on the surface. Again his superiority was denoted by a raised metal crest which ran front to back, from which sprang a flowing plume of black horse hair, imported from a world where such creatures could survive. At last sealing his hardy boots and gloves he turned sharply and stalked from his chambers. His private hesitation now concealed by his noble obligation to appear confident and authoritative in front of his people. He made for a slightly odd sight as he made his way through the manicured gardens and gleaming marble walkways of the upper levels that he called home. But every man here knew his name and his purpose, and so dutifully stood aside.

By the time the hyper lifts had brought him to meet his assembled men in one of the great garages, he looked significantly more appropriate to his surroundings. Stained glass and burnished gold had been replaced by rough ferocreet and hanging cables. Looking about Alaric half expected to see someone there. His father, his mother, his sister, even Jorriah. Instead he was only greeted by the rumble of engines and the smell of oil. That and his second officer. A man dressed much like him, but without the gold trim and horsehair began pacing towards Alaric, saying with aristocratic tones that even a respirator could not hide.  
"Greetings Alaric, the men are equipped and briefed. The last of them are loading on now." He said gesturing behind him to the last remaining troopers climbing aboard the Chimera transports that awaited them. "The men of the mechanicus say the machine spirits are in good humour, an encouraging omen for our venture."

Alaric mustered a distracted nod, his thoughts still lingering on who wasn't here, before forcing his mind to the task at hand.  
"And what of you Holt? How are your humours?" A question Holt seemingly answered with a slight laugh.  
"Robust my friend, robust. You and I have been quelling the most devious scum in the under hive together for a while now. These orks may be tough, but I'd wager we are smarter!" Alaric did not quite so readily share in this good humour as the pair made their way to the command chimera, distinguished by its extra antenna and communications dishes. But Alaric was warmed by his friend's enthusiasm.  
"Let us hope you are right my friend. But be cautious. Jorriah has told me all too often of the cunning of orks." But Holt only scoffed.  
"It seems the orks took his courage as well as his arm. Calm yourself. The men tell me the air here as done something to our local xenos. Changed their pallor and driven them half mad." Alaric had never been one to confuse madness with stupidity, battling insane crime lords had taught him that. But he did not wish to sour Holt's mood over something so small.

Instead he cracked an invisible and faint smile under his sealed helm as he grasped the chimera doors behind him.  
"So. We aren't fighting orks. We are fighting mad mutant orks. Remind me Holt. How was that supposed to be reassuring?" He asked, before slamming the heavy door behind him.


	2. The Cliffs

Alaric almost cracked the back of his head against the armoured hull of the chimera as it jolted suddenly on a particularly uneven piece of ground. Not even caterpillar tracks and generous suspension could quite negate the severity of the torn earth beneath them. The hoarse growl of the engine was near deafening and conventional conversation was more likely to be straining than useful amidst such noise. Casting his eyes back down onto the data slate in his hands Alaric again surveyed the aerial images the valkyrie patrol had taken. It seems a pack of the local xenos had gathered in a series of caves, sheltered from righteous promethium fire from the heavens. Brief snaps of their raiding parties and occasional activity around the cave mouths were the only clues as to their presence. Alaric took some comfort from the confined spaces. He was used to fighting in overcrowded habs, tight gangways and sharp corners. This would not be too different, he told himself. But the journey there troubled him. There was a lot of ground to cover, and in territory that favoured a cunning defender.

Closing his eyes beneath the mask he uttered a silent prayer to the Emperor, that his gracious protection would shield them in this mission to smite the foes of his people. But he spared a thought for the machine spirit was well, almost absentmindedly running his offhand along the metal of the bench beneath him, like a man might stroke a hound. As if to offer gentle reassurance and encouragement to the metal beast.

Suddenly the vox relay in his helm sprung into life.  
"Sentinel 1 to Mission Lead. Sir. I see movement on the cliffs ahead." Stated the crackling, distorted voice from the head of the column."  
"Column halt!" Ordered Alaric, broadcasting to all vehicle commanders. Before rising up, hunched double in the cramped confines of the transport, and shuffling to the back of the vehicle to open the doors. As he did so the man was instantly blasted by the wretched air that purveyed here. It blew hard against him, almost stinging him through the mask. He was grateful for his protective clothes, had it been otherwise his skin would have begun to blister, and his eyes weep in well under a minute. Longer exposure could be much less pleasant. The looming monolith that was the hive still towered above all features in this blasted waste, but turning away he instead looked ahead of the column, and the bare red stone cliffs ahead. Raising his magnoculars to his eyes Alaric looked up at the imposing feature. Everything was still and quiet, but that provided him with little comfort. The broken terrain provided any number of cracks, holes and rocks to hide amongst. To make matters worse, if they wanted enough promethium left in their tanks to get to their objective and back, the convoy had to go the short way. Which sadly took them on an all too vulnerable path between those cliffs.

Despite the fact he saw no foes himself, Alaric decided to be cautious. Activating his vox he broadcast to the various section and vehicle leaders.  
"All infantry disembark. First platoon, stay with the column. Second platoon, scale the cliffs to the right, third platoon, scale the cliffs to the left. Vehicles, deploy into dispersed line and provide support if engaged." With that his orders were put into effect, engines barking into life as the vehicles moved into position after the troops disembarked, spewing acrid black smoke into an atmosphere already polluted beyond all repair. Meanwhile the characteristic hiss and creak of sentinel legs straining as they moved pierced the otherwise dull tone of motors. Sealed like those famed upon Armageddon, but sporting autocannons, these stained and worn metal monsters were an intimidating sight. Indeed, many foes that might have been waiting in those rocks may have been deterred by the display. Four sentinels and twelve chimeras taking up position was an unnerving spectacle. But Alaric could hear Jorriah's words echoing in his mind. The orks knew no fear.

Men were bustling around Alaric, forming up into their various sections and platoons, readying to go. House Varshod was not without considerable coin, coin it did not spare when sending one of its sons into the fray. Beyond these transports, the men were well equipped. Most soldiers were armed with the ubiquitous las rifles, so common in the Imperium they were practically a symbol of it. But the house had also equipped their private troops to standards almost rivalling the Imperial Guard. Each of the nine infantry sections was equipped with a missile launcher, blessed by every holy rite. Whilst a specialist heavy weapons section, came ready with two las cannons and two mortars. A Varshod chimera las rifle company was not to be underestimated. But then, neither was an ork.

"Set the heavy weapons teams up amongst the vehicles with the 1st platoon." Order Alaric evenly to the trooper approaching, distinguished by his sergeant's stripes and the chainsword at his side."  
"Yes sir." And gruffly the man began giving the necessary commands, seemingly able to identify each identical trooper by name, but in fact adeptly picking out their small numbered bands worn on their left arms. Meanwhile Alaric sought out Holt, who he discovered recovering a bolter carbine from their chimera.  
"Are you still using that monstrosity Holt?" Enquired Alaric, with a mixture of surprise and amusement. Holt just gave an amused snort as he shifted the weapon in his grip. It looked like a normal boltgun, only with a slightly elongated barrel, with a hefty wooden stock so you could brace the weapon against your shoulder, and a stalker pattern telescopic sight. The man may have had a pistol and chainsword at his side, but from the way he held the weapon, you could tell this was Holt's tool of choice.  
"Unless you are a seven and a half foot tall blessed astartes or clad in power armour, you try using an auto bolt gun with any real accuracy. And do not get me started on how unreliable the bolters are that they issue to anyone other than the Emperor's blessed warriors." He sounded like he spoke from experience, the slight hint of bitterness in Holt's tone was clue enough. A dangerous thing in this world. "But this." He continued brightening. "Might actually hit something, and you have no idea how much reliability improves once you strip auto the auto function. Besides, it's a bolt gun. You only need to hit something once."

Alaric smiled again a little, concealed by his heavy mask. He was glad to have Holt with him on this mission. His old friend provided a reassuring constancy and familiarity to an otherwise alien situation. But the pair had no time to reminisce.  
"Holt, join the third platoon. I will take the second."  
"Going forward?" Enquired Holt, only to have his mild surprised surpassed by the slightly worried tones of the first platoon's Lieutenant.  
"Sir. Might it not be wiser to remain with the first platoon and the command section?" His concern was less for the fate of his inexperienced commanding officer, but rather for himself. The aristocracy was not known for being even handed and understanding. If the son of Lord Varshod died, it would be the men tasked with keeping him alive that paid the price. But Alaric was either unaware of this, or uncaring as he retorted.  
"I'm confident you and sergeant Killran can manage in my absence. You have your orders and I will be on the vox." It was clear he would brook no further questioning as he began to walk off towards the cliff with the second platoon. Though in truth his attitude was much less cavalier than he made out. He had convinced himself fighting in the lower hives, that junior commanders from noble stock were generally regarded in one of two ways by their men. Either as whiny, limp wristed sops who had no right or ability to lead. Or as men born into their rightful place as natural and bold commanders. No matter how nuanced the truth was, Alaric was anxious to seem more like the second type of man than the first, and he needed to demonstrate this early to his new command. Of course, in reality the views of the men were far more complicated, but Alaric had yet to grasp all of these subtleties.

Instead he focused on the cliffs ahead of him, eyes which edged on the paranoid darting from shadow to shadow, hole to hole, for any trace of the enemy. All too aware of just how vulnerable he was in this great open plane, he began to question the wisdom of his own actions, and a certain caution entered his steps. His resolve standing less out of a belief in the rightness of his own actions, but more out of a duty to both his men and his family, to be the officer they needed him to be. Reaching the foot of the cliffs he wondered if his brother had ever been grasped by the same trepidation, if so the man never showed any sign of it.

Steeling himself Alaric began to scale the rocks at the head of his men. Fortunately, the cliffs were not sheer, rather they sloped at about 60 or 70 degrees, but such an obstacle was still formidable. At every step gravity strained to pull you back down, and the heavy gloves of Alaric and his men were poorly suited to worming their way into the small hand holds and crevices necessary to keep a man from sliding back down the cruel red rock.

Heaving his body up Alaric fumbled about for his next purchase, arms straining at the effort of supporting himself and his equipment for all this time. When a scatter of small rocks bounced off his helmet, sending a sharp sting through his skull. Alaric muttered a silent curse at the clumsiness of the man above him, had the oaf dislodged a larger rock it might have been the end of him. It was not until he was mid-way through ramming his hard boots into the next toe hold that the realisation hit him. There was no one above him.

A cold shiver ran through the man and with a serpentine speed he snapped his head up to look at the ridge. Eyes wide and ranging fast, pupils darting with a speed only those in mortal danger could muster. Before his mind could even process what his eyes had seen, his right hand had come free of the rock, instinctively drawn his ripper pistol and fired into a patch of shadow. The sound of the report echoing off of the rock caused every man to freeze in place. A stillness which ended a heartbeat later when a darker patch of shadow detached itself from the cliff above them and tumbled down below in an eerie silence. Whatever it was, it was humanoid, but far larger and bulkier than a man, as well as currently missing a head as a result of the twitch reflexes that Alaric's mind had still not fully caught up with.

Suddenly, things began to happen very fast. A roar erupted from somewhere up above, one which was joined by unnumbered other cries bellowing up into the sky. A split second after that spears and javelins began to tear down from on high, followed by the rattling thump of sporadic ork gunfire. A snap pierced the air as a shot ricocheted off of the rock mere inches from Alaric's head, little splinters of stone bouncing off of his mask. With the near miss forcing him back into life Alaric continued scaling the cliff, his movements fast and frantic. Retreat was death, stillness was death, there was only forwards.  
"Follow me!" He cried to the men behind him, scrambling up with just one hand, whilst the other still gripped his pistol, hoping his example would carry them forward. Occasionally he would let a shot off at the backlit shape of his foes, nothing but darkness against the sky. But such efforts were more of a token gesture than anything else, focusing on the mad scramble upwards he had little time to spend on aiming. But at least he could shoot, those whose weapons required two hands had no chance, and were left only with the choice of climb up or tumble down.

At that moment, a shower of red laser fire tore into the ridge above as the main guns of the chimera's did their holy work. At such a range single target accuracy was near impossible, but that did not matter. All they needed to do was create a beat zone and drive the bastards away from the edge. The sizzling hiss of the shots hurtling over head was at once comforting and unsettling. Reassuring in that it was powerful help from a friend, unnerving because Alaric had to climb towards it. From somewhere on high more bellowing cries could be heard, but they were not ones of fear or panic, rather they carried notes of defiance and bitterness. Had they simple served to enrage the foul xenos rather than driven them off?

Still though, the efforts of the foe to reign death upon Alaric and the platoon were now far more sporadic, but sadly not absent. He became aware of a sudden cry, cut silent half way through, as one of his men was snuffed out, who knew if it was the first? It certainly would not be the last. But still he kept climbing, hard breathing echoing around his mask, heart pumping in his chest as he scaled quicker and quicker. There was a rustling whistle akin to a child's fire work overhead, and casting his eyes skywards Alaric could see two dirty trails of black smoke arcing towards his transports. A pair of low booms indicated the primitive rockets had indeed detonated. But the fire in support of Alaric was unabated. Indeed, it seemed only to draw the attention of some of the sentinels as moments later a hail of small flameless explosions from the raw kinetic force of supersonic slugs burst out above, the auto cannons lending their power to the fight.

The ground shook under the might of the impacts. So much so that the small rock Alaric had been hanging on to dislodged from the cliff, tumbling down below, with Alaric shortly behind. Pawing wildly at the roughhewn rock for some new purchase, Alaric found the cliff unyielding, the world sliding past his eyes with alarming speed. Things began to move almost in slow motion, each and every detail picked out with painstaking clarity. Wildly open eyes tearing in every conceivable direction, looking for salvation. Suddenly a sharp shock from below reverberated up through his legs and his whole body tumbled sideways, coming to rest on something mercifully solid. Looking about Alaric found he had been caught by a perilously thin ledge, the last thing between him and a fall so long it would almost certainly have been the end of him. Recovering his pistol which dangled off of him by a cord Alaric looked up to see many of his men staring back down at him.  
"Keep going!" He bellowed, even as he struggled to stand himself. "Keep going!"

The body of another soldier tumbled down past him, bouncing off of the rocks with a sickening wet crack. Mercifully the man did not cry out, for he was already dead. Grasping onto the rock face Alaric began to climb once more, ignoring the stinging protest of his injured leg.  
"Forward!" He again barked, and is if waiting to see whether Alaric would join them, his men began to scale the cliffs once more. The efforts of the orks continued, as spear and shot came from the ridge line. But Alaric's supporting fire was having its effect, breaking apart the foe and rendering them ineffective, for a while. Even so, another brave defender of the hive met his end as he climbed, his body impaled through the chest, cartwheeling back down the rock to join the broken bodies of his comrades below. But despite this, the men pressed on with greater fervour. The top of the cliff was so painfully close now, they could almost reach out and touch it. For these last few precious meters their supporting fire had to cease, lest they cause more damage to friend rather than foe. The sudden quiet was odd. Yes, there were still bellows and gun fire for the foe, but compared to the overwhelming cacophony of a few moments ago it felt muted, almost tranquil.

But such a sensation was short lived. Having scrambled back to the head of his men, Alaric was the first to reach the summit. He heart felt tight as he drew in a sharp breath, like a man diving beneath the waves. Apprehension gripping at him as he forced his way upward and into the next inevitable challenge. All he had time to notice was the great hand that tore towards his throat. He felt what happened next, rather than see it. The sensation of his body being lifted with insulting ease into the air, the harsh jerk on his neck at the motion, his throat convulsing and spasming as it tried to cough only to be prevented from doing so by the monumental pressure that threatened to collapse his wind pipe at any moment. With the same wild reflexes as before Alaric brought his gun up, squeezing the trigger in desperation before he had even taken aim. From the sudden roar and mounting pressure on his neck, he had hit something. With his eyes now coming into focus after the shock he could see the towering ork that had him by the neck. Dressed in little more than rags and hammered flat plates of metal it was clear this creature had to make do with very little, but that only highlighted the bulging mounds of straining muscle that made up this vile beast. Unlike many of his kin on other worlds, this ork like all others on this planet, had unnaturally white skin. The eye of faith might be able to make out the odd patch of extremely faded green, but such sights were rare. Even the hardy orks were not immune to the ravages of this world, all of the colour had been bleached out of them. Leaving them pale, and sickly in pallor. As the monster growled Alaric could make out pusing sores on the body of the beast, weeping lesions that would never heal. But none of this seemed to hamper the ork, indeed they served only to drive them to greater feats of wild strength.

Alaric could make out the wound in the ork's right leg his shot had created, with a small shift of the wrist he adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger again, with the sound of snapping bone and tearing muscle the ork's other leg was blown apart at the knee, and with a bestial wail the two fell to the earth. Alaric for his part bounced hard off of the rock, soon falling onto all fours as he hacked and spluttered, his throat in utter agony. With a mighty wretch he felt something wet splatter against the inside of his mask, the smell of iron filled his nostrils whilst his head screamed in pain. The ork for his part was still trying to fight, clawing his way over the red earth towards the prostrate Alaric. Even without any functioning legs the pale skinned ork was still a danger. Rolling onto his back, still wheezing, Alaric could dimly make out the crawling shape of the hulking monster. Fortunately, such a slow thing made for an easy target, and even allowing for his watering eyes it was a simple task for Alaric to raise his ripper pistol and loose the terminal round through the xeno's skull.

His arm flopped down, almost in gratitude as his lungs still struggled to take in enough air without suddenly descending into convulsing coughs once more. His breaths were broken and rasping, he sounded less like the fit young man he was, and more like an ancient man whose lungs had been corrupted by both age and chemical long ago. But a dancing shadow in the corner of his vision remined Alaric all was far from done. Suddenly a spear jabbed inelegantly towards his face, the attack was clumsy and hesitating, that alone saved his life. Catching the weapon by the shaft Alaric could now make out the bone white gretchin on the other end. The diminutive foe began to squeal and scamper away as soon as it realised it's plan had been foiled, but it had nowhere to hide from Alaric's practiced aim, another reverberating blast and the creature was no more.

By now some of Alaric's comrades were cresting the ridge, it would have been poor form to lay on the ground in front of the men. And so now, with the pain in his leg still stabbing, and his lungs still raggedly protesting at almost every movement, Alaric forced himself to his feet and turned to see what was coming. He almost wished he had stayed down. The broken landscape was strewn with rocks and the pale, torn bodies of the foe. The support fire had taken its tole. But scattered orks and gretchin alike remained, and were even now closing on the vulnerable household troops. Behind them, some distance off, was a more condensed white wave, streaming towards them, shootas and choppas in the air, a war cry that lusted for blood bellowing out from the horde.

Every man amongst his men had as much desire to live as Alaric did, and with the cliff to their backs they had nowhere to go. So, without the need for instruction, each soldier unslung his weapon, took cover behind his boulder of choice, and started firing. These men lacked the full formal training of man kind's true armies. But something about a screaming mass of orks does wonders to sharpen the eye, and steady the aim. Alaric for his part opened up a vox channel to his heavy weapons teams.  
"Mortar fire, 40 meters ahead of the ridge line. Fire for range." Whilst he waited for the shell to arrive he turned his pistol on the nearest ork, a thundering mass of muscle, rage and teeth bellowing defiance as it came at him. A square round to the chest that would have ended any mere human seemed only to stagger the brute, even as bone and viscera were laid open. A second round impacted close to the first, the ripper pistol truly earning its name as it tore with brutally inelegant effectiveness into the creature. Even then the beast kept coming, as it took several seconds for the signal to reach the brain that it was dead.

A thundering boom rang out as an explosion detonated a little way from the main ork mass.  
"Adjust aim. Ten meters right. Fire for range!" Distracted by his calculations Alaric failed to see the lumbering ork surge up from a dip in the ground to his left. Spinning around he dropped his pistol and drew his sword with a practiced deftness that spoke of both training and natural ability. In a single smooth action his elegant blade, that sang as it cut through the air whilst the near imperceptible shimmering blue aura around the blade sparked into life, met the rusting, jagged choppa mere inches above his head. Even assisted by the power field Alaric still sagged at the knees slightly at the sheer strength of the beast. Had he been in better condition this might not have happened, but his leg still stabbed in pain with every movement. Fortunately however, his duellists instincts were still very much attuned. Using the momentum of his swing Alaric was able to push the great choppa aside with an ability that caused a moment of confusion to show on the ork's heavy set face. Then, with a deft twist of the wrist Alaric was able to sharply twist his blade through 90 degrees and bring it sailing back, running just above the creature's arm before connecting with it's thick, bulbous neck, cleaving through it as readily as his knife did through butter at dinner. It was a simple but effective manoeuvre, and in truth, Alaric had discovered protracted swordfights amongst those who truly meant to kill were rare. In his experience most only lasted between five and ten seconds. All those years of training, for such a brief moment.

Tugging on the cord of his pistol so it came back into his left hand Alaric watched with satisfaction as he saw a blast erupt just in front of the main ork mass.  
"Range found." He said down the vox. "Lock and fire for effect." Seconds later a small series of explosions began to break apart the main ork body, a small patter of frag rounds tearing down on their advancing target. This small expedition hardly had many mortars, and no true artillery, Alaric would be denied the righteous might of the Emperor he so desperately wanted in this moment. But it was significantly better than nothing. All about him his men continued to fire, a frag round whistling by as a missile team took a shot at the mass beyond. Whilst the signature muted blast of the las rifle echoed about him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a pale ork descend upon one of his troopers, the titanic mass beating the soldier down like he was made of straw. Quickly levelling his pistol Alaric put two rounds into the back of the beast, causing it to stagger to the side and fall, unceremoniously. Unfortunately, judging by the terrible stillness of the man on the ground, it was too late.

Another white skinned monster drew up to Alaric, running up the rock Alaric was sheltering behind and launching off of it with a great cry from a mouth overfilled with rotting, yellowed teeth. Holding his choppa overhead in both hands he looked set to cleave Alaric clean in two. Sliding back sharply Alaric only just managed to avoid the great swing which came down with such force he felt the air buffet against him as it swung by. Alaric was shifting like a mongoose, short, sharp movements, planted, precise, controlled. He looked less like he was on a battlefield and more like he was in a fencing hall. The ork came around for another wild swing, but, with blade outstretched Alaric was able to simply flick his arm up and divert the weapon to arc above his head so close it almost shaved the horse hair. But in battle, a mile or a millimetre, a miss was still a miss. More radically, the ork found the metal of his weapon burning away like ash as it was parried away. The power field of the archeotech blade slicing through it, just as it did armour. This was swiftly followed by Alaric launching two piercing strikes, delivered with needle like precision, the razor keen sword and potent power field both lancing and burning away flesh and crude metal plate to roast the vital organs within. The ork seemed to valiantly struggle to keep fighting, staggering to right himself as the dumb beast attempted to soldier on, despite no longer possessing a heart. But even he had to stumble and fall as his wretched blood failed to reach his muscles.

By now the main body of orks was drawing close, clearly from some ambush set further up in the gorge. The sound of their footsteps shook the earth like the approach of some distant train. These white skins were better equipped than the ones they had encountered thus far, as well equipped as an ork ever was. A flurry of poorly aimed shots snapped off the rock which gave Alaric shelter. A piercing twang caused Alaric's heart to suddenly jump into his throat as a single round glanced off of the armour at his shoulder. As if in response he flung up his gun arm and began pouring shot after shot into the oncoming horde of screaming white flesh. There was no longer any real chance of missing, all he had to do was squeeze that finger as fast as he could. It was not until he heard the click of an empty clip that he slowed. With desperate speed he ejected the empty magazine, and ramming the tip of his sword into the rock beneath him, cleaving it as easily as it did metal, he used his now free hand to hastily reload. Just as the distinctive thunk of the first round entering the chamber reached his ears he was aware of a shadow enveloping him. Turning sharply he readied to fire, when the pain that had been constantly throbbing through his leg flared up in an agony that demanded to be felt. Something about the way he had turned perhaps. Regardless rather than pivot, he stumbled, giving a hoarse shout as the ork's blow landed. Stooping to grab at his leg meant the corroded blade of the toothed choppa did not meet his head. Rather the splintered wooden shaft of the weapon did, but it still had the power and fury of an ork behind it. Alaric was aware of the sensation of his body hitting the ground like a rag doll. His head too numbed to properly feel the pain, but acutely aware that he was in very serious trouble. The world felt abstract, out of focus, made up of only vague shapes and movement, his actions seemed dreamlike and strangely detached from his conscious thought. As he saw his gun arm come up to turn on the ork he found himself wondering why this was, had he told his arm to do that, was it just acting on its own?

Regardless he felt his finger pulling the trigger three times in short succession. Each cacophonous blast sounded far away and muted, as if a wet towel was held to his ear. The next sensation he felt was one of colossal weight as the great pale skinned ork collapsed on top of him, it's maw lolling open next to his eyes, rancid tongue hanging lazily, eyes still and lifeless. Suddenly the world came rushing back with ear splitting volume. The sound of gun fire, men roaring in both effort and pain, the war cries of the wild pale orks. Alaric became aware of an agonizing burning sensation in his throat, quite distinct from the crushing pressure of before, his tongue starting to blister and his eyes streaming. A terrible realisation then dawned on him with an unnatural speed. His mask was broken. Heaving with the strength only a desperate man could muster Alaric was still unable to push the dead ork from off of him, the weight simply too much for the man. Flailing out with his right hand he strained for his blade, still dug into the rock, hoping to use it to cut the ork into manageable pieces. But no matter how much he strained, even as his shoulder threatened to pop out of its socket with the effort, it remained tantalisingly out of reach. As he felt a strange and terifying liquid begin to run down his throat he shifted tactics to trying to crawl out backwards from under the colossal dead weight, scrambling like a mad man, half pushing, half kicking with his legs, working like out of control jackhammers in a mad bid to be free.

Eventually, Alaric felt himself coming loose, slowly getting more and more wiggle room as the battle continued above him, thundering feet passing just by his head, bodies falling with heavy thuds, until all at once he popped up like a jack rabbit. With his lips jammed tightly closed and eyes scrunched up to the point of near blindness he could just make out the shape of his blade, which he lunged for with a desperate eagerness. Spinning about like a top Alaric made for his own men, the poised control of his sword work forsaken for vague swings at vaguer shapes, no real though given to killing, only to clearing a way back to his troops. Occasionally he would feel his sword contact something, was it flesh, a blade, a rock? Who knew? He certainly didn't nor did he care, as long as he could keep moving nothing else mattered.

Eventually, from some unseen angle, he felt a friendly hand on his shoulder, pulling him in to some form of cover. Alaric was dimly aware of some voice asking him.  
"Sir, sir? Are you all right?" But he had no time to answer. Instead, forcing his eyes fully open, shouldering the lancing pain which provoked in him a dire urge to just claw out his own eyes to make it stop, he looked about for a corpse. A little to his left one of his soldiers lay, chest cleaved open in a sickening display more suited for the blood soaked table of a medieval surgeon. Falling upon it Alaric tugged out the face plate of the helmet which served as the respirator, before tossing aside his own, the interior caked in a worrying red mist dotted with black flakes. With fumbling hands he rammed in the replacement, the hiss of pressure seals reasserting themselves providing little comfort as his lungs continued to convulse and wretch in protest at the damage already done. Even as the water in his eyes washed away the last contaminants, and the world returned to clarity, he was aware that every breath taken was raspy and broken, as if someone had raked with clawed fingers at his throat and lungs, the sensation of air passing through him was one of mind splitting agony.

With broken wheezes Alaric brought himself upright, shoulders visibly heaving with the effort of breathing. His tired limbs wanted to do nothing more than collapse, to lay down on the floor and simply wait, for rescue or the end, it scarce mattered. But Alaric was determined to ignore such mortal frailties. He was the nobility, he was their leader, their officer. He was a Varshod damn it! He had an image to maintain, standards to live up to, duties to fulfil. He could not fall here. Looking about him, he could see the platoon had corralled itself into a U like shape, backed against the cliff. Through clever use of the broken rocks, and the righteous zeal of the Emperor's fury the position was holding, but casualties were mounting. Those orks attacking from the sides were forced to run along the cliff edge, exposing them to the supporting fire of the sentinels and chimeras, adding a cacophony of rumbling blasts and searing red laser fire to the already overwhelming maelstrom of battle. One such blast struck a nearby boulder with such super heated intensity a section of it boiled away and exploded in a light shower of rapidly cooling molten stone, a few small droplets hitting Alaric and smoking briefly before sizzling into silence.

Forcing his way to the fore Alaric joined the firing line, loosing shot after shot into the oncoming brutes again and again. Then from somewhere to the rear of the foe a booming, crude voice bellowed out.  
"I'll show yah how it's done yah gitz!" Some larger mass began forcing its way through. Those orks which did not step aside were unceremoniously tossed out of the brute's path. At the advance, the orks seemed to hesitate and back away from their assault, as if waiting for their champion to act. Even Alaric's men seemed to instinctively take pause and just watch as the colossus drew near. Alaric knew that the orks respected strength and size, and this monster was testimony to that fact. It was at least a foot taller than any other ork here, its bleached skin was criss-crossed with poorly stitched scars and wounds that never quite healed. One empty eye socket seemed to stare at you with more intensity than any mere eye could, whilst the one that remained was bulging and bloodshot. Weeping sores and oozing rashes littered his bald head, whilst a plethora of poorly riveted and crudely welded armoured plates provided him with protection that was as effective as it was inelegant. Alaric found himself wandering how the beast even moved, weighed down by such thick slabs of metal, let alone move so easily. The monster's armour was washed in faded paints of red and white in a jagged, tooth like design. Whilst in both his hands the brute held a terrifying weapon, it seemed to be made of several chainswords broken apart and welded back together, to form one giant sword of mismatching colours and random teeth. The behemoth wielded it like a claymore, whilst most men would never have been able to conceive of picking it up at all.

With a cruel, mocking, rumbling laugh the beast brought his weapon back before swinging it down in a great arc that threatened to rend five men apart with a single sweep and toss their bodies clean away like paper into the wind. Frozen, in a mixture of fear, disbelief and awe the men of house Varshod just watched on as their doom approached, rooted to the spot. Even Alaric paused for a heartbeat to behold this magnificent and terrible sight. It was not until the downswing began that something at the back of his mind kicked him into sudden action. Dashing forward he brought his humming blade up over his head, held at an angle to gently send the titanic swing off to the side. Even assisted by his power field Alaric still had to use his off forearm to brace his wrist against the sheer force of the blow. He had hoped his blade would dissolve the orks rumbling weapon, but a dance of mechanically impossible lightning over the improvised sword, and a roar from its engine showed that this was not going to happen.

The beast turned its single eye down to Alaric as a wryly amused grin spread across its face, tusk like teeth jostling for position in it's great maw.  
"Well well. The little hummie thinks it can foight? Ha ha ha!" Whilst his mask may have protected Alaric from the rotting stench of the ork's breath, it did not stop a few miscoloured dabs of spittle from inelegantly splattering on his eye panes, But Alaric was not concerned with taunting and mockery. Instead he simply brought down his blade in an effort to slice at the beast's neck, inside the orks guard as he was. But his only reward for this effort was for the ork to sharply plant a boot to Alaric's chest, knocking Alaric clear. He could feel his lungs convulsing again at the sudden impact, coughing and spluttering as his throat burned, even whilst he lunged for the ork, an assault the monster knocked away with overwhelming force.

Brining his roaring great chainsword back around the pale skinned titan smashed his blade downwards towards the vulnerable Alaric who was only just able to bring his sword up in time to deflect the blow, weapons meeting in a shower of sparks as lighting infused chain teeth screamed against the elegant unknown metal and it's humming power field. Alaric would surely have collapsed under the sheer weight were it not for his blade's ancient energies, and even so he was only just able to send the ork's crude weapon off of its course, where it met with the ground in a hail of splintered stone as the chain blade ripped apart the red rock as easily as it would rend flesh. Bellowing in equal parts intimidation and frustration the orc followed up with a full blown rising sideways slash with the power and follow through of a batter's swing, tracing dancing forks of electricity in its wake. Alaric was left with no option but to slide sharply to the side and out of the weapon's path, leg screaming at the effort and now dimly aware of a sickly feeling running down his shin, one he could only describe as red.

But with his impossible blade held high the ork was vulnerable, and lancing forward with the cat like spring of a fencer Alaric lanced the brute under the arm, the energy of his blade parting metal and flesh alike mere millimetres ahead of the sword's keen tip. Had such a blow been delivered to any mere human the target should certainly have died as vital arteries were severed and lungs punctured. But the vast ork just span around screaming, not in pain, but in rage.  
"Oi what you do dat for yah git!" He bellowed as he surged forwards. Swinging his blade which roared just as he did time and time again, with a speed that should have been impossible for such a monumental weapon, at one point colliding with a boulder that shuddered at the impact, developing criss-crossing fault lines before suddenly exploding in a hail of lethal chunks like clenched fists. With a duellists precision and control Alaric was forced to back away from the crazed assault, his feet never crossing, rarely even leaving the ground as he stuck rigorously to the same principles he had been taught in the grand halls of his home atop the hive.

But despite all this Alaric was still painfully aware of his surroundings, apprehension, even fear creeping into his mind. Soon he would be backed onto a cliff, and that would be that, every slide of his foot he expected to be met with empty air, one ear listening out for the sound of pebbles falling as a clue for what he knew was looming behind him. Meanwhile his eyes stayed locked on the furious ork, whose attacks were getting wilder and wilder.  
"Stand and fight yah git!" The creature roared, before surging forward like a bull and delivering a furious upswing at Alaric, so close the roaring teeth almost grazed his mask, Alaric got an unparalleled look at the spinning chain blade, it's teeth etched in equal parts rust and blood. As the blade continued to rise Alaric put his own under it, and using the swings momentum he forced the weapon up and up, to almost vertical, straining to achieve that height. Just as the weapon reached its zenith, he corrected his stance and exploded forward before the ork could bring the huge sword back down. Arm outstretched in a classic lunge Alaric caught the great ork in his empty socket, the humming blade, about 4 fingers tall at its tallest point, sliding into the skull with an unsettling ease. The orks behind the great monster would see Alaric's blade protrude from the back of their leader's skull, who screamed in agony as the power field boiled away his brain, until eventually the whole skull set on fire like a burning torch, it's owner still howling.

In truth this display lasted only two or three seconds, but to all who saw it, it seemed to drag on for a terrible eternity. When the ork eventually descended into merciful silence, and fell slowly backwards with a heavy thud, his near naked skull burned black with drabs of roasted flesh hanging off of it, Alaric simply lowered his sword to point menacingly at the nearest ork. Several seconds of silence reigned as everyone waited for what would happen next.  
"Wot…wot do we do?" Asked one uncertain ork, seemingly to no one. But Alaric would answer him, by way of an order to his troops.  
"Open fire!" He declared, in a voice that was harsh, broken and rasping, but which had only gained in authority. As one the las guns behind him erupted in a hail of shots, a frag missile tearing into the ork ranks and sending limbs flying. As the front most orks fell, the ones towards the back began to edge away until one loud voice declared.  
"I'm the boss now yah gitz and I says we'z is gettin outa here!" That was all it took for the orks to start to run, and run fast, still with the guns of the house troops felling them from the rear. Alaric for his part stood there, stoically silent and unmoving. Hoping that no keen eyes would see his sword arm was trembling.

Eventually though, as the foe began to vanish, he allowed his arm to drop. Alaric's intimidating silence in front of the orks ended in a flurry of violent, hacking coughs, each of which had a worryingly moist quality to them. He had only remained so quiet by holding his breath, a display Alaric was now paying for as he bent over double, body wracked in pain, almost falling to his knees as his body shook with each splutter. The second he had put his weapons away Alaric found himself leaning heavily on a rock with one of his hands in order to remain upright.  
"Lieutenant!" He just about managed, in a voice almost drowned out by the desperate effort of his lungs to purge the taint inside. "Take the platoon, and advance along the cliffs. Carefully."  
"But sir." Began the man, as he reached for Alaric. However, Alaric had no time for such questions, literally. Switching over to his vox Alaric continued.  
"Second and third platoons will advance along the cliffs above the gorge, just ahead of the column. First platoon will escort the vehicles down the gorge at a walking pace. Be careful of mines and traps."

It was the familiar, assured, voice of Holt that answered.  
"We just cleared out a few locals of our own, from the sound of the fighting I think you got the worst of it." But then genuine concern crept into his tone as he said hesitantly. "Alaric. Are you okay? What's wrong with your voice?" But Alaric did not answer. His orders given, he slowly sank to his knees in the broken earth, and closed his eyes. Only dimly aware of two things. The terrible, wet pain of his breathing, and the hands of his Lieutenant grabbing at him.


	3. One Hell of a Headache

The first sensation that came to him, was that of the terrible scratching in his throat. It felt like someone had replaced his windpipe with sandpaper, every slow breath created a coarse, rending sensation. The next thing he became aware of was darkness. Were his eyes closed? Could they be opened? What would he see if he could? Finally, simultaneous throbbing pains began to reach his brain, from both his left leg, and his skull. His mind went back to some of his more brutal mornings after a rare moment of indiscretion had allowed him to be tempted to one of his more indulgent friend's extravagant parties. But this pain was something far worse, and without the fond memories of fine wine and suggestive smiles from eager young women who saw only his name.

Stirring Alaric tried to open his eyes, the sound of the ocean in his head, almost unnoticeable due to how all-encompassing it was, slowly split into two distinct tones. One was a high-pitched lancing sting that would slowly fade into the background. The other was a low rumble like rocks in a dryer, occasionally flaring in effort. It took time for him to realise what this noise was, it was the sound of an engine.  
"He's coming around." Said a vaguely familiar voice from some unperceived face. "You said he wouldn't wake up for another few hours. It's too soon." Whoever was speaking they were clearly concerned. The disembodied voice that responded was a little more detached, almost clinical.  
"Let him wake up. Another dose would be unsafe."  
"But…" It was at this juncture that Alaric finally managed to pry open his eyes. The world was soft and out of focus at first, nothing but blurred shapes and shifting colours. Eventually however, something approaching clarity began to sink in. He recognised the inside of a chimera, and from the fact he was staring at the ceiling he must have been lying down. Straining to lift his head he almost immediately regretted the effort as something inside his skull throbbed like it would explode.

"Where…" But he did not get to finish his question, as a familiar face appeared over his with one of those empty reassuring smiles that showed just how worried the man giving it really was.  
"You are in one of the chimeras. We are on the move. You have been out for hours." It took Alaric a few moments for his sluggish thoughts to fully register who was talking. But that short cut red hair that somehow permanently seemed to be the perfect degree of tousled no matter what happened to it, could only belong to one man.  
"Holt. What has happened… why aren't you…" But again the question was never completed, not due to his comrades interruption but rather to the shot of pain that lanced through him and caused him to grimace into silence, screwing his eyes shut as he fought back the sensation.  
"Relax Alaric." Urged Holt, with a voice that was more pleading than comforting, his light brown eyes which bordered on the yellow carried the same concern as his voice. "We are out of the pass, having to go at walking pace slowed us down. But the men on the cliffs managed to clear out a few ambush nests before they could attack the convoy. No serious resistance, no vehicles lost. Some of the commanders wanted to turn around, take you back to the hive." Holts firm yet gentle hand on Alaric's chest stayed Alaric's almost instinctive urge to sit up and give the commanders what for at that last suggestion. "But I stopped them. We are pressing ahead."

Holt leant back, a slightly smug smirk passing across his face. "It wouldn't do to let a couple of these primitive brutes turn the two of us around. We have a reputation to maintain!" It was not entirely clear if Holt was being serious or not, it rarely was with Holt. But Alaric was more focused.  
"We have a job to do." He emphasised, the pain making him stern. But Holt just gave a scoff and momentarily raised his eyebrows in comedic dismissiveness at the predictability of it all.  
"Such a dour man." He teased with a hint of genuine criticism before continuing. "Besides, I can't let us turn around just yet. Not until I have bagged an even nastier brute than you." Alaric let out a repressed snort of a laugh at that sentiment, even cracking a small smile as he lay there before instantly regretting it and erupting in a flurry of hacking coughs. Knowing his friend was out of immediate danger, and trying to keep the mood light, Holt chuckled along at his friend's discomfort, but a slight wince of sympathy behind it all betrayed his sympathy.

"I wouldn't recommend it." Alaric eventually replied once he had regained control. But it did not seem to deter Holt.  
"Oh no. And unlike you, I'm not going to be an idiot about it." Alaric just perked his eyebrow at that, but Holt continued. "You see, this is why I'm going to use this." He said tapping his modified bolt gun which was propped in the corner of the room. "Only idiots would go toe to toe with an ork. Even I know that."  
"Calling me an idiot now?" Pressed Alaric, with an obvious hint of amusement in his dry, broken voice from a throat that was not yet recovered.  
"Well, I always did say you weren't a smart as everyone keeps saying you are."  
"Bold words."  
"Well, I'm not the one lying on a stretcher." Alaric had to concede to the irrefutability of that statement, as misleading as it was. And so instead, fell into a slightly contented silence. He was glad for Holt's company, for reasons he could never adequately explain to himself. Holt was one of those people that should get under his skin, and wind him up no end. But Alaric's spirits were almost always improved by Holt's attitude.

Eventually though Alaric did have to turn back to serious matters. Speaking in a voice that now carried a slightly sinister, broken rasp to it, he asked.  
"What are the extent of my injuries?" Mentally he braced himself for a crushing response. The answer came from the medic in the back, who even now was filling out some sort of chart, not even looking to Alaric whilst he responded with a detached air.  
"Your right tibia has a bad bone bruise, almost fractured. You have suffered a concussion, and you were lucky to have just that. Your oesophagus and trachea were both partially collapsed, significant blood build up in both your lungs and stomach as well as froth in the former. Corrosive damage to both as well. A good number of your bronchi broke down, mild corrosive damage to your cornea and a case of orrenian poisoning from some airborne toxins." Alaric felt his fingers and toes curling up at the news, he did not quite understand it all but he understood enough to know it was bad. Again, taking a moment to steel his nerves he asked the follow up question.  
"What is to be done?" Only to be answered in the same, almost uncaring tones. Though now the medic did at least turn to look Alaric in the eye, all be it with the air of a disappointed tutor driving a point home to a particularly stupid student.  
"I have already sucked your lungs and stomach empty of all the contaminants." Tapping an IV which ran into Alaric's left arm he continued. "You are on a drip to counter the orrenian poisoning. This is the last bag you will need. So your organs will not fail one by one. Your cornea's have been repaired with the appropriate salves. Your lungs will be harder to reforge, but with the appropriate medication it will happen in time. Until then you will also need medication to boost oxygenation. Whilst you were unconscious I went in through your mouth and performed some surgery to restore your oesophagus and trachea to the right size but they remain weak. As for your vocal cords, who can say? And your leg I have put in a brace." Handing over a sheet of papers with a list of medications and times the man continued. "Here is your medication schedule. I also prescribe bed rest but…" He gestured about him to the chimera's sealed interior, as if to indicate the general situation. "That's not exactly practicable, and I doubt you would listen anyway. Just try to lie down as much as you can and keep pressure off of it."

Alaric felt some of the tension in him dissipate as his muscles relaxed. Whilst he had not emerged unscathed it did seem as though he would make a full recovery, the great fortune of having access to the best medical treatment money could buy unlike many of the other hive residents who would have just been left as broken shells, or worse had they suffered similar injuries. But that was a thought that did not even cross his mind.

Instead he focused on more practical concerns.  
"Holt, how are the men? Strength, supply, morale?"  
"We are still combat effective." Began Holt's reply. "1st platoon, heavy weapons section, HQ section and vehicles are all unscathed. Second platoon lost one third of its men to death or injuries too severe to fight. One or two walking wounded. Third platoon lost about a sixth of its men with a similar number of lightly wounded who can still fight." Alaric nodded his understanding, silently grateful for the low casualties. Had that sentinel driver not spotted movement, the situation would have been much more grim. Holt meanwhile continued his report. "Ammunition is plentiful and the reduced speed has increased fuel efficiency. But the cautious advance through the canyon has sent us off timetable. We are catching up some time now on the plains but we are still behind schedule. We are okay for now, but if we slip much further off timetable we are going to have food and water problems." Alaric gave a little disgruntled but resigned moan, he had feared as much himself. These expeditions were always focused more on overwhelming firepower in the battle itself, only leaving the smallest of safety margins for other supplies.  
"If the time comes we will need to call for Valkyrie resupply." Commented Alaric, only to be met with scepticism from Holt.  
"You know they don't like landing Valkyrie's out here, too precious, and too vulnerable on the ground."  
"They will do it for us Holt." Stated Alaric firmly, his broken voice lending an odd and slightly unsettling weight to his words. Still though, Alaric shared Holt's concern. Unlike his friend he was convinced the Valkyrie would come. But if it was in someway damaged in the attempt, it might cause more harm than good. Was it worth the risk, even for their lives?

Keen not to dwell on that prospect any further he pressed on. "What about morale?"  
"The men are in good spirits, for now. A few mourning lost comrades but most high on victory." But Alaric was a little doubtful.  
"What of the NCO's and officers?" Holt seemed to pause, as if trying to recollect. When he spoke, he did so hesitantly, as if unsure of his words.  
"They were a little quieter." Before perking up with. "But old dogs always are."  
"They are worried. Worried about the return trip. Worried about food and water. Worried about the fact the orks set up a proper ambush with anti tank rockets. This was not supposed to happen Holt. We were supposed to drive straight there, clear out some brutes with clubs, spears and the odd salvaged gun, and then come back. This level of organisation and defence is uncharacteristic of the local pale skins."  
"What are you saying Alaric?" Enquired Holt with a tone that was part perturbed, part confused.  
"That this is not over. We may run into more problems during this journey, and our destination may be more prepared than was anticipated." But his caution was met with a scoff from Holt.  
"You've let the old man get to you my friend. You were not this apprehensive in the under hive, and there we were facing an enemy actually capable of thought. Or at least as close to thought as those uneducated dregs could achieve. By the Emperor Alaric. These are the pale orks, mad and strong but barely capable of speech!" But Alaric just replied with a sceptical groan.  
"We are agreed on one thing at least. We keep going."

His mind drifted to thoughts of returning home a failure, to how much larger those opulent halls would feel as he grew smaller and smaller, how much more cavernous the echoes would be. He would no longer be able to stride with earnest purpose, but rather creep with timidity close to the shadows. Part of him tried to conjure up the image of his father screaming at him for his failure, slamming his fist on the table, red faced and eyes bulging, but he could not. That would have been preferable. Instead he would return as he left, with no word of welcome, he would not even be invited to report. Both he and his failures would just go unacknowledged by any other than himself. He pictured sitting at the foot of the table, idly moving his food about his plate, whilst his father, mother, sister and brother fresh returned from his ventures, exchanged hearty laughter and earnest conversation.

There was an old phrase amongst the nobility when it came to their sons. An heir and a spare. It made sense, from a dynastic perspective. Heirs had a habit of dying in battle, being assassinated, being struck by illness. It helped to have back up to reduce the chances of the line dying out. It was even a practice Alaric endorsed. But it was rare to have the spare reminded of his status through such infuriatingly passive indifference. Failure here would, he believed, only deepen the apathy. If such a thing was possible. This was not something he could permit. Oh, true, there was the honour of the family to think about, the good name of the nobility and the genuine importance of the mission. But whilst he spoke of those motives, it was this more selfish desire that dominated the back of his mind.

The journey continued for some hours, Alaric doing what he could to rest there on his stretcher, trying to ignore the jolts and rattles of the chimera as its engine belched and the jagged ground beneath took its toll even on tracks. Half of his mind was on how he could bring success, the other half on the consequences of failure. Eventually though the vehicle came to a halt and the engine sputtered into silence. Craning his head back to look at the driver Alaric enquired.  
"What's going on."  
"Staking camp for the night sir. The men need their rest." Alaric supressed the urge to scald the man, as if he did not realise that the troops needed respite. But he had no wish to appear petulant, or to alienate his troops. Instead he began to stir, knocking Holt who was dozing in the corner with his good foot.  
"Humm, huh, what?... I wasn't sleeping!"  
"Never said you were." Replied Alaric with a grin. "Why so defensive, guilty conscious?" Prompting Holt to just grumble something unintelligible in response.

The pair set about donning their equipment again. For Holt this just meant slipping on his mask and helmet, but for Alaric it was a much more considerable task as most of his equipment had been removed for his treatment. Alaric had to remove and then reapply the brace to get his legwear on, but keen not to aggravate his injuries he tried to keep his injured leg as straight as was possible, creating a semi comedic scene as he struggled with his clothes.  
"Need some help with your trousers there Alaric?" Enquired Holt with a grin was broad as a particularly satisfied and extremely fat cat.  
"Never say those words again." Replied Alaric flatly, but the fact he stopped struggling and just held out his leg gave his real answer. With dignified silence, and an undignified smirk Holt helped his old friend into the heavy, hardwearing fabric and secured the braces once more. It said something of the relationship between these two comrades, that the men outside would never know anything of this.

Eventually, with much uncomfortable struggling, Alaric at last secured his final pieces of gear and checked the seals on his mask. Holt for his part, reached over and opened the door, with the hiss and crack of pressure seals. Alaric emerged to see a dimming world, basking in an almost throbbing crimson glow as the planet's ominous and bulbous red star sunk below the horizon. It's last rays of light twisted and corrupted though the haze of the polluted atmosphere. The column had come to rest on a small, rocky rise. It was a good spot, with decent elevation and clear views all around, although the many boulders and rocks littering the blistering red ground did give him some pause. Still though, they had an abundance of such things themselves and even now many of his men were pilling these into primitive walls, under the stern instruction of their sergeants.

Meanwhile, many others had erected tarpaulin tents over the backs of their chimeras, sealed tightly to the ground, giving the men a little more room to eat and sleep. None the less, Alaric would be making sure everyman slept in his gas mask tonight. To improve matters still further, the spot they had chosen had good natural defences, in the form of a toxic, oozing river that was so teeming with nebulous taint that parts of it had formed a thin, pitch black crust which floated on the surface like the cracked skin of a lava flow. This ooze crawled along in the shape of a C around the rise as the deeply unnatural river snaked past the high ground.

The scene was given a somewhat homely atmosphere by the sound of a slightly out of tune guitar with strings just a little too lax playing idle melodies from somewhere up above. As it turned out one of the sentinel pilots was sitting cross legged atop his walker, strumming away, almost lost in his own little world. Alaric pondered on that curiously primitive instrument. It had seemingly been around as long as humanity had, no one quite knew where it came from. It had just always been there and whilst instruments and music came and went, most a thousand times more intricate and subtle than that, the guitar was one of those human legacies that just seemed to endure. An invisible, semi amused, smirk manifested under his mask. If they could show half the inexplicable resilience of that simple instrument, they might just survive.

Walking to the edge of the camp he came to a stop beside the Lieutenant of the first platoon.  
"How's the leg sir?" Asked the officer with an air that made Alaric's injuries seem about as significant as wet weather. Then again, that was just the restraint of the officer class.  
"Barely feel a thing Lieutenant." Lied Alaric, but at least it was more of a dull throbbing pain now, rather than a sharp and lancing one. "Thank you for asking. Do you have the rotor for watches and pickets drawn up?"  
"Yes sir, I have already distributed it amongst the sergeants."  
"Very good. Make sure the men only unpack what they absolutely have to, and repack it as soon as they are done. We might need to move off in a hurry." Alaric's easy air concealed not just the pain he felt but also his concern.  
"Very good sir." Before pausing and enquiring with a little more concern in his tone. "Do you anticipate another attack?"

Whilst the lieutenant asked this question Alaric brought his magnoculars up to his eyes and began to scan their surroundings. From what he could tell, nothing was amiss. No movement, no creeping shadows, no sign of something lurking behind a rock. But something itched at the back of his neck. It was that odd feeling you got when you could have sworn someone was watching you even when you were alone in a room with no windows. Without looking back to his Lieutenant he answered in slightly hushed tones.  
"I don't know Lieutenant. But I do know, we aren't alone out here."


End file.
